Monday, March 29, 2010

Tired in Fez

Paul said that when we stepped into the riad after our long afternoon of guided walking, Hazel leaned way over, touched her hands to the cool stone floor, then—letting out an “oooh-oof!”—said, “I’m strehhhh-t-tching.” Coming up she added, “Oooh, my back hurts.” Just like Paul after the bike commute home.

We walked by ourselves in the morning, walked with the extraordinary Hakim in the afternoon. (Paul tells me that the having-a-guide/chauffeur reminds him of that scene in Aravand Adiga’s The White Tiger—just as literary a reference, not quite so romantic, a little more attuned to the post-colonial world.) I hope we get a chance to come back. A day was short. And having a guide only serves to underscore just how much there is to know. And I wish I could type on into the night. Being a tourist is tiring. Tomorrow on to Chefchaouen—north into the Rif.

After Morocco -- Massachusetts? (But wasn't it Emily Dickinson who wrote, not nine miles from here, "The Mail from Tunis, probably,/ An easy Morning's ride"?) I'm on the cusp of a second year back in the classroom; Paul's into his longtime plan of a masters in mathematics; Hazel is now gloriously four; life bumps and grooves along and we're still in western Massachusetts. It's an odd thing -- difficult? happy? love-filled? -- to take with you the places that you've been, dig in deeply to the place where you are.